old iron

of itself

Buttoned-up with rivets,
an abandoned sluice pipe
we noted with something more
than fleeting regard,
acknowledging its shift, when?
From something ugly to somehow fitting
here among the remains of an old claim.
The birds sang, the grass leaned,
the sand sighed. The whole planet

shifted, as it does every morning, tilting
its face to the moon, or away,
but imperceptibly. We moved on
forgetting how it all breathes, until now

when I look again at the photo I took

of this old iron and see traces of sky
reflected in rust, the life

of light in its laggard melting

back into this earth we spin on.

Kay McKenzie Cooke